Field Doctor
by ShippingWriter
Summary: Gilbert Beilschmidt was having trouble sleeping. He'd taken a bit of shrapnel earlier that day, but the field doctor had been preoccupied, so he shakily wrapped his own wound and hoped for the best. Now, laying there on his blankets, Gilbert wished he'd just gone to search for the doctor. [Human Names Used] [PruCan]


Gilbert Beilschmidt was having trouble sleeping. He'd always thought that as the personification of the Kingdom of Prussia, he'd be near immune to serious injury. The pain in his side, however, begged to differ. It had hurt so bad earlier that the pain had brought tears to his eyes, but it now seemed to be dying down. He hoped he hadn't been injured too bad, and thought that he might decide to risk some movement. Attempting to roll over in order to get an idea of the level of injury he'd sustained, he found himself having to stop and wince as he felt the searing pain returning with a vengeance. Sighing, he ran his fingers along the messy gauze he'd wrapped around his midsection and flinched. He'd taken a bit of shrapnel earlier that day, but the field doctor had been preoccupied, so he shakily wrapped his own wound and hoped for the best. Now, laying there on his blankets, feelings the effects of the cold and paranoia adding to the pain of his wound, Gilbert wished he'd just gone to search for the doctor. But it was too late now. Sighing again, he let his arm fall down next to him. Trying to put the pain out of his mind, he stared at the top of the tent he was resting in, and focused on his breathing.

 _In. Out. In. Out._

He could feel his muscles relaxing, and the pain seemed to lessen some.

 _In. Out. In. Out._

Drowsiness slowly crept over him, and he closed his eyes, grateful for some sleep.

 _In. out. In. Out. In. Out- THUNK._ Gilbert shot straight up, groaning at the stabbing pain that returned to his side. He didn't focus on it for long, however. Something or someone had tripped over his tent peg and fallen to the ground. His brother, Germany, was asleep in his own tent, and the sentries had been ordered not to leave their posts, which could only mean one thing. Someone had managed to sneak into their camp site. Absentmindedly, Gilbert fingered the gun that lay next to him and slowly peeked out the tent flaps. It was a pleasant night, as long as you had enough blankets to keep you warm. The soothing sounds of the natural wildlife and the soft touch of the cool breeze should have been relaxing, but it only made Gilbert more aware that he didn't have any idea who it could have been, much less where they were now.

 _What if it was England?_ He thought, painstakingly getting up on his feet and gripping his tent pole for support. _Or Russia! Oh my god! But then, I'm dead if that America comes running out from behind that tent._ He gripped his gun tightly and peered around the side. He could faintly make out the outline of someone sitting on the ground, tugging at something. Quiet mutterings floated over from them, and he realized he recognized the voice.

 _I've caught America!_ Gilbert thought, grinning to himself. America had just tripped over his tent pole and gotten his ankle tangled in the rope! He was a sitting duck! _What a wonderful opportunity! I'll just organize a ransom situation. Bruder will then see the true strength of the great and awesome Prussia!_ He held the gun up as if meaning to shoot it and held it, pointed at his new captive's head.

"Freeze!" He whispered harshly. "You've been captured, I suggest you cooperate quietly, unless you want a bullet to the head!"

The figure let out a squeak and froze.

"I-I'm sorry! Ah-I mean... this was never supposed to happen! I was just-! I mean... oh boy.." Gilbert frowned. That didn't seem like America. Confused, he reached into the tent and pulled out the lantern he kept in there to see by, lit it, and held it towards the person his tent had snared. He was met with a pair of piercing purple eyes, fear dilating them into something barely distinguishable. While he had the same face and glasses as America, the similarities stopped there. His hair more resembled France's wavy cut, and there was one long, curly lock hanging on its own, refusing to be a part of the rest of it. His clothes resembled those of someone who had spent a long time in the cold, as a long hooded coat and sturdy boots were the most noticeable features. Finally, a pair of snow goggles perched on top of the young man's head, suggesting that he was used to freezing weather and sudden snowstorms. The look on Gilbert's face must have softened, because the young man seemed to relax, and even smile at him.

"H-hello." He said, putting his hands in his lap. Briefly, Gilbert wondered what nationality this kid could possibly be. Judging by the way he was dressed, he definitely wasn't American. Russian, maybe? He definitely had to be an ally, or else he wouldn't have snuck into their camp.

"Hi..." Gilbert said, sighing and letting the arm with his gun in it hang at his side. "Don't suppose you happen to know where the United States of America currently is?"

"Asleep at camp. Uh, sir." He replied, sitting up straight and adopting a serious look on his face. "He's currently asleep at camp, along with all the rest of the allies."

"Alright then." Gilbert sighed, untangling the rope from around the youth's ankle and then stepping off to the side. "Now get outta here before my bruder wakes up." The young blonde rubbed his ankle but simply looked up at Gilbert.

"You're letting me go?"

"Ja. So what?"

"Well, it's just that-" The young man's eyes were suddenly drawn to Gilbert's midsection. "That... that looks horribly painful! What happened?"

"What... this?" Gilbert asked, patting the now blood-soaked gauze. "It's nothing. I just got injured a bit and decided to treat it myself. Now get on out of here before Luddie wakes up. Seriously."

"But that's going to get horribly infected... It's not even tied tight enough! Here, let me fix it."

"No way. You're an ally, which means you're my enemy, and-"

"Enemy or not, we're both people. And enemy or not, if I found out you died when I could have done something about it, It'd be my fault, and I would know it. Now with all due respect, shut up and let me help you." Gilbert stared at the peculiar person sitting there next to his tent. He was an ally, Gilbert an axis. Yet he wanted to help him. Everything about this situation should have screamed 'trap', yet something about the warm and friendly smile on his face made Gilbert want to trust him.

"Well... alright... it does hurt a lot. Thank you... umm... what's your name?"

"Oh! I never told you my name!" The young man realized, his eyes widening. "You may call me Matthew. Matthew Wilson."

"Beilschmidt. Gilbert Beilschmidt." He replied, smiling ever so slightly at the strange young man. He wasn't European, since he'd said his first name at first instead of his last. _Well, that rules out my Russian theory. but then, where is he from?_

"Okay, so I need you to lay down so I can fix your lopsided, messy bandages." Matthew said, rolling his sleeves up. "Luckily for you, I always keep a bit of gauze with me in case of emergency."

"I see." Gilbert replied. "Well, you seem to know what you're doing... alright. Let's get this over with, then." Gilbert laid his gun down and then sat down on the ground next to it. Matthew pulled a roll of gauze out of his coat, but sighed when he looked over to Gilbert.

"If you're using your stomach muscles to sit upright, this is going to hurt even more. You need to either lay down or lean up against something."

"Alright, alright. Here, uh, can you pull that coffee crate over here?" Matthew complied, and Gilbert leaned up against it, groaning slightly. The light from the nearby campfire made everything look slightly magical, and for a split second when Matthew pulled his coat off so he could work better, he looked almost other-worldly, but Gilbert quickly dismissed this thought and tried to take his mind off of the regrowing pain. Muttering things to himself about first aid and bandages, Matthew gingerly undid Gilbert's shirt enough so that he could get a good look at the damage.

"You didn't even take the shrapnel out!" Matthew exclaimed, earning a shush from Gilbert and a small stirring noise from the closest tent. "But you left the shrapnel in!" Matthew insisted, much quieter this time. "You'll get a horrible infection, and possibly die!" Gilbert had to bite his lip to avoid insisting that he was a nation, and that nations couldn't die. The average human didn't know of their existence, and if this boy was one of them, then informing him could theoretically cause more bad then good. So instead, Gilbert simply sat back and calmly let Matthew tend to him. As he worked, he quietly chatted with Gilbert, asking about his family, hobbies, where he lived, that sort of thing. Matthew seemed increasingly interested in his homeland, so Gilbert told him all about the kingdom of Prussia. At some point during his story, a faint look of recognition crept across Matthew's face, but it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and then he was back to asking about his brother and his family. Finally, Matthew tied the last knot in the gauze and stood up, wiping his slightly bloodied hands on his pants out of habit.

"There you go, Mr. Gilbert. All patched up."

"Please, just Gilbert. There's no need for the Mr." Gilbert insisted, running his hand along the fresh bandages that had been artfully placed over his now healing wounds. "You're very good at this. Where did you learn your field doctor techniques?"

"Oh..." Matthew replied, smiling and flushing a little. "Well, my father, Arthur, decided that I should need to know how to keep myself alive in emergency situations. He taught me the basics, such as dressing a wound, creating a splint, treating infections, that sort of thing. So really, this is all thanks to him."

"I see. Well, your father sounds like a very smart man." Gilbert said, trying to place a nagging feeling that had suddenly crept into his mind. That name sounded slightly familiar. Maybe someone he knew? But that would be impossible, there was no way this boy was from anywhere near his country. "Hey, Matthew? I have a question."

"Hm? What is it, Mr. Gilbert?" Matthew asked, sitting down on the ground next to him.

"Really, just Gilbert is fine. And my question is, what country are you from? You dress like you might be Russian, but you don't act or talk Russian. Help me out, are you American? French? British possibly? What?" Matthew smiled and laughed quietly.

"Well, I suppose in a way, I could be considered both of the last two... I'm Canadian, with the proud heritage of the maple leaf. Don't feel bad if you forgot about Canada, we get forgotten a lot. I've gotten used to people forgetting my country by now."

"Oh... Canadian. In a way, that makes perfect sense. At least, from everything that I've heard about Canadians." Gilbert smiled and tried to stand up. He stumbled a little and nearly fell back down, and Matthew grabbed his arm.

"Alright there, I think you should go back to sleep now."

"You're probably right... hey, Matthew?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you." Matthew smiled and started leading Gilbert over to his tent.

"No problem. No problem at all. Now, let's get you to your bed, eh?" He gently lead him into the tent and helped him ease down onto his bed. The second Gilbert's head hit his pillow, he realized just how tired he really was. He couldn't keep his eyes open.

"Good night, Matthew..." Gilbert muttered, settling down into his pillow, drifting off.

 _"Good night, Prussia."_

Gilbert bolted up out of his bed and looked around, confused. The sun was coming up, and he could see the shadow of his brother being cast on his tent. Sighing, he stood up, stopping momentarily to marvel at how much of the pain had disappeared from his wound. The expertly tied gauze reminded him of the strange boy that he had found at their camp last night, and what he'd last heard him say. _Did he really... call me Prussia? But... how would he have known?_ Shaking his head, he decided to think about that later, and exited his tent.

"Ah, Bruder. You're awake." Ludwig Beilschmidt, the personification of Germany, said. "While we were sleeping, some of our rations went missing, and my Luger got relocated. I think it's safe to say that someone managed to get into our camp. How they did, however, remains a mystery. We had sentries everywhere!" Ludwig turned to his Luger, now resting at the base of a tree, and sighed. "I really don't know..." Gilbert watched his brother stare at the gun and sigh, and then wandered back over to his tent, going to find something to eat. Instead what he found was a letter held shut by a maple leaf sticker, leaning up against the tent flap. He picked the envelope up and went into his tent, closing the flaps behind him. Quietly, he opened the letter and slid the small piece of paper that sat inside out.

 **Dear Gilbert Beilschmidt  
It seems that I misjudged you and your allies. I had always expected the Kingdom of Prussia to be somewhat full of himself, but you're a very nice person. Before you ask how I know who you are, you accidentally gave it away when you were talking about your family and such. At one point you referred to your brother as 'Germany' instead of 'Ludwig', and I simply put the pieces together. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I hope your wound heals quickly.  
Oh, by the way, you may notice a few rations missing from your camp... I didn't want to, but Alfred told me to, and it's really hard to go against my own brother. Plus, Papa and Arthur would have sided with him as well, since we're your enemies in this war. If it helps any, I took the bare minimum. A can or two, a small bag of coffee beans. Hopefully nothing you'll miss too terribly bad.  
Well, get well soon.**

-From the desk of the Dominion of Canada

Gilbert stared at the watermark signature at the bottom of the page. _Dominion of Canada? But that would mean he..._ Gilbert noticed some ink from the back of the page slightly leaking through, and he turned it over.

 **P.S. Yep, I'm a nation, too. I hope I can talk to you after this war is all over. Maybe we could be friends. I would like that very much.**

Gilbert laughed quietly. "Well, well. Mr. Canada is a sneaky little thing, isn't he?" He chuckled to himself as he slid the letter back into the envelope and then stashed it underneath his pillow. He quietly checked over his fresh bandages again, making sure they weren't coming off, and exited his tent for the second time that day.

"Hey, West!" He said, walking over to his brother who was currently scolding a sentry for falling asleep. "You know what I want to do when this war's all over?" Germany paused and turned to him, pushing his hand through his hair.

"And what's that?"

"I think I wanna go to Canada." Germany became visibly confused.

"Canada? Why Canada of all places?"

"Let's just say, I have a friend waiting for me there." Germany raised one eyebrow and gave Gilbert a once-over, his eyes lingering on the bandages wrapped around his midsection.

"Should I know anything about that injury, Gilbert?"

"Nah, not really. It's treated now, so it's fine!" Germany looked his older brother over once more, and then sighed.

"Whatever you say, Bruder. Whatever you say."

About twenty miles away, Matthew Wilson sat on a fallen log and examined has ankle. It was still a bit sore from last night's trip, but it wasn't twisted. Thanking his lucky stars for that small victory, he stood up and continued walking forward. The crisp wind that had originally caused him to shiver now gave a sense of relief as the hot sun continued to beat down on him. He sighed with relief as he saw his own camp begin to creep into view. Suddenly feeling rather happy, he picked up his pace, singing quietly to himself.

"A friend, a friend, I'm going to have a friend!~ His name is Gilbert Beilschmidt and he's going to be my friend!~"

"What's this about a friend?" A voice came from his left. It belonged to Arthur Kirkland, the personification of England. He sat at a small makeshift table with a cup of tea and a crumpet, giving Matthew a quizzical look. "And where have you been?"

"Oh, nowhere important. I just met someone, that's all."

"In the woods? What were they doing in the woods during wartime?"

"He was with his brother, but his brother was asleep in a tent nearby. They were looking for some people, but they haven't found them yet. He was injured, so I helped him." Matthew replied, settling on a half-truth to avoid England's inevitable suspicions. England stared for a second, but soon shrugged his shoulders and returned his attention to his breakfast.

"Alright, I trust you. By the way, we have a strategy meeting in twenty minutes. We have a new plan of attack. Don't be late."

"I won't England." He called, going to get some breakfast of his own. _This cruddy war will all be over soon, and then we can met each other properly, as normal human beings. I just hope he remembers._ With that thought in mind, he grabbed some breakfast and hurried to the meeting tent, anxious to finish the war as soon as possible.

 _It'll all be over soon._

 **((A/N: Grr... I've rewritten that stupid ending over fifteen times and I'm still not happy with it. Anyways, this was originally uploaded to my Deviantart, and now I'm posting it here. This is my first ship-focused piece, so I would love lots of criticism to help me get better. ))**


End file.
